Kim had not gotten back from work yet, and I was washing some dishes, preliminary step to putting some dinner together for us, when I felt a flutter about my right shoulder, and having barely turned my eyes in that direction saw a spring angel alight on the sleeve of my jacket. It was a lily white young butterfly with a full wing span of about an inch and very small black markings. Moving slowly, I opened the door to the yard and stepped outside, in an instant it disappeared into the darkening evening.
I went back to my chore feeling immensely blessed, and noticed that while this brief mysterious visitation was happening, I was hardly present. That is, the chatter of the self-centered process of thought had succumbed to the incandescence of a rare perception. The mysterious presence of tiny butterfly with its pure white framed by dark gray had dissolved the mental entity that calls itself Fernando. But the beauty of those few instants went beyond even that of the tiny visitor. It was the beauty of an innocent perception in which the hard boundary between subject and object had ceased to exist. It was love.
The first blessings of Spring are here, and this angelic visitation made evident that this in not just another instance of what thought mechanically takes out, ex-periences, and then puts back into the memory bin that bears the word: “SPRING.” What is presently occurring in the Northern Hemisphere is unprecedented, entirely new. It has never happened before, and it cannot be properly regarded if the witness is not just as new and innocent. That is, no prerecorded images and words must come in between to judge, compare, and evaluate this incipient phenomenon, because if they do they will bring along both, the opaque presence of the predetermined person that enjoys (or is indifferent) to some other, and equally predetermined thing called Spring, and thus revert to the imaginary mental distance separating one from the other.
I enclose below one of the micro essays included in Dying to See because I feel it communicates well the need to become aware –and thus transcend-- the falseness of the separation between what we all determine to be “me” in positive or negative contrast with what is presumed to be “not-me.”
There is an expression of the words “I am” or “I exist” that carries not a trace of distinction. Being is, in itself, not this or that, not a subject or an object. Being is everything, and for that reason it is no-thing. Even though free of attribute or distinction, being is aware. In fact the intensity and all-embracing acuity of perception stems from the fact that the wholeness of being is not any thing in particular.
Freedom from all the particular characteristics of a separate personal being (name, family and clan, religion, race, gender, cultural tradition, social class, educational level, age group, etc.) makes mind equally indistinct, empty, unoccupied with itself, and therefore immensely aware. This impersonal awareness is love, the love of life in both possible senses of the word “of,” the love that is and comes from life, and the love of life for itself.
Happy Spring, my friends
(Kim tells me that the little white butterfly probably hatched in one of the big house plants she tends to all winter. So, in some little measure we may have helped incubate Spring at home, and that is also a wonder. I also go out in shirt sleeves in early April's cool weather to lend Spring some extra warmth. We are all in this together, right?)